Excerpts From: Truth Be Told: Tales of Life, Love, and Drama

Foreword by Travis Hunter

Relationships are tough but they don't have to be nor should they be. We've gotten so use to issues that we expect them, sometimes we seek them out. Just think back to when you first met your mate, you got together because they made you feel good by just being there or they made your day by calling just to say hi. But somewhere down the line life started creeping into the equation, the newness wore off, and the issues started popping up: Oh no he didn't! I can't believe this girl said that! I'll get his ass. Oh, she's gonna pay for that! Well, rule number one in having a successful relationship is no keeping score. Rule number two: keep an honest and open line of communication going at all times. That's not to say that problems won't arise but when they do rear their ugly heads the only thing that will solve them is the two of you working on them together-not with your girlfriend, not with your homeboy, and especially not with your family!

Driving While Black by Robert Fleming

Slowly, she removed her gun belt and laid it on the bench near her. The gun was all he saw, the gun that could cause him pain and injury. He thought about falling on his knees, begging her for forgiveness. But then he knew that pitiful act wouldn't work on her. She wanted something, maybe blood. Maybe his blood.

"Take off your clothes, Mr. Sanders," she said. "Every stitch."

"You got to be kidding, right?" he asked, his eyes almost tearing.

"No, I'm not," she replied, moving toward her gun belt.

"Come on, that was a long time ago. You can't fault me for something I did as a kid."

"I can and I will," she said, watching him hopping on one leg still stuck in his trousers. "Hurry, Mr. Sanders, I don't have all day. Let this over with."

He stood before her naked, ashamed and humiliated, holding his hands over his privates.

"On your knees before me, here, right here!" She pointed to a spot inches in front of her, clenching her teeth. "Do it now!"

She was a fine Puerto Rican woman, quite attractive. About thirty. His age. He couldn't remember why he stood her up back then on prom night, left her sitting in her expensive, custom-made dress in her living room while he hung out with his boys, drinking and raising hell. She had every right to be pissed, but to keep a grudge this long was nuts.

Ties That Blind by Michael T. Owens

"Ma!"

"There's my Richie," Mrs. Mayes says, using her hefty frame to pry between Rich and Kim, "Give yo' mama some sugar, sugar."

"Hello, Mrs. Mayes how was the drive?" Kim asks.

"What you think? I hate driving from Peachtree City up here to Atlanta. But I wanna see my Richie!"

Mrs. Mayes shuffles to the living room and immediately sits next to Rich, leaving Kim to sit alone in the loveseat. "You sure lookin' kinda thin, baby," she adjusts her glasses. "She been feedin' you?"

"He eats very well, Mrs. Mayes."

"My baby need some real food-soul food, not that white folk's stuff you be cookin'. And why dinner so early? Y'all white folks eat waaaay too early for me."

Rich's eyes widen. "Ma!"

Kim has heard it all growing up as a biracial child so she's not bothered one bit.

"Well it's true, baby," she leans forward, "you know who's a good cook, though? Charlotte. She can-"

Kim leaps from the loveseat. "I'm…I'm going to check on the turkey..." She knew Mrs. Mayes wouldn't be herself if she didn't mention Rich's ex girlfriend, Charlotte. They dated years ago but Mrs. Mayes still mentions her.

Dawn by Kenji Jasper

Thai remembered all of those hours sitting in the clinic, when Robin was on the other side of that white door, when the plan had been to X-out what had been conceived via faulty latex. They were still young. They still wanted to party. They were both too stubborn to see that they were meant to be for life.

Thai had sat in that room, with cartoons of all things playing on the tiny TV. The magazines were from the Clinton era and the batteries had already died in his Discman. There he was, twenty-something and loving it. New job. New city. New crib on a better part of Tryon than where he'd stayed his first time there. This was the best thing. He knew that. She knew that. That's why they were there.

But then he looked around at the other men waiting with him: the Mexican tow truck driver who acted as if the whole thing were routine, the dirty blonde white boy of 17 who claimed to be 23, the slim Indian man of 30 who couldn't wait to get out of there, and somebody's sister, who was hoping they would hurry up and finish so that she could make her nail appointment. These were all people who didn't need to have children. It was a matter of money, or age, or them not being able to look beyond their navels. For Thai, however, it was none of the above.

The Harrisburg Tease by Robert L. Anderson

Sometimes shit just feels heavy. Deep. Like whatever weight I'm carrying on my back won't allow me to move forward. To advance. Like I'm suspended in time. Hanging, defying all gravity, laying waste to all time-tested laws of physics. Stalled. Confused. In a rut.

Stagnant.

And it's sorta ill, because these are the very times I do my best work. Like the piece I sold to that white couple from Chester for nearly a grand a few weeks ago. Classic shit. Hours of effort, strain, release. Shoulda hit'em up for far more than what I walked away with, barely enough to cover my rent and utilities, but far better than yet another 5th of the month spent eating Top Ramen and calling First USA begging, pleading for yet another rate decrease, or threatening to transfer the balance, knowing nobody else in their right mind is gonna lend credit to my broke ass.

And thus, I sit here, in my thoroughly artsy Second Street row house, for at least 30 more days, peering out the window at the Capitol, wondering just how to pull myself out of this couch, out of this home, and out of this rancid state of being that seems to have caught 83-N into the Keystone state and taken up temporary residence in my psyche.

Sinfidelity by James W. Lewis

'Bout thirty minutes pass. House becomes techno, which I can't stand too long. Again, Jamaica girl reads my mind. She taps my shoulder, cuffs her hand over my ear and says, "I'm ret ta go! Wan come wit me?"

I swallow. "Coming" with her is the understatement of the millennium.

"Yeah," I say. She grabs my hand, and we weave through the traffic jam.

Bodies smother us from all sides, mashing Lil' Man against Jamaica girl's booty. She grinds her hips to a techno beat that doesn't sound half-bad. Damn…so thick! My heart punches my ribcage. Jamaica girl knows what she's doin', tryna get a small piece of the rock.

Yeah, I can hit it. Glad the hotel is only a hop-skip away.

But wait a minute …I can't hit it. At least, I'm not supposed to hit it.

Images of my wife swamp my head. Where'd she come from? Despite my absentee ring, I'm still a married man. Married eight years to a beautiful woman, matta' fact. Got a child together.

My stomach flips as if I'm on a 500-foot rollercoaster drop. We inch past clubbers toward the exit-but now doubt blurs my mental focus. Playa-Playa slips away; Hubby and Daddy emerge. Guilt piggybacks my conscience and tries to combat desire and the lure of infidelity.

Last Remnants of a Good Situation by V. Anthony Rivers

Claudia returned looking half naked as if she'd just stepped out of somebody's magazine, website or something! I couldn't think straight at that point. She was wearing some kind of black lace thong and bra that was cut very low and seemed to grip her breasts like I imagined doing. Claudia smiled devilishly and knew she had a firm lock on my attention. Not even the crackle of flames from the fireplace could take my attention away from her. As I said, she knew what she was doing.

"I take it you approve of what you see?" She asked.

"Yeah…"

Claudia laughed at my expression. I was almost dumbfounded and even a tad bit nervous. She walked towards me, still chuckling to herself and I didn't move an inch. She reached out for my belt with both hands as she moved in closer. She puckered her lips but only in a teasing way. I could tell she was enjoying my inability to resist anything she was doing. She had no trouble loosening my belt and opening my pants. She noticed a little something.

"I guess somebody is a little excited!"

"Yeah…"

I couldn't say much, but everything in the world that I could think of, raced through my mind. Mostly I was thinking to myself about how I needed to surprise her with more getaways if this was how she'd thank me each time.

The Beautiful Ones by Nane Quartay

He paused to look at her again. She was leaning back on the sofa, her thick legs slightly parted, inviting, watching him. Their eyes met. He felt half crazy. He wanted her.

Gwynne was sucking on his nipple and blowing out reefer smoke at the same time. That is some good weed, he looked on, amused. Gwynne giggled before she moved over and straddled him. She kissed him softly on his lips and he smiled at her. Gwynne had short hair that hung loosely to the nape of her neck in a ring of curls. Her body was classic, wet dream type shit: Spanish stock and style, sensuous and dark with passion…and always a joy to please. Gwynne was a different taste…a long, luxurious drink, and he felt the measure of his manhood whenever he could stroke her until he saw the passion of orgasm pass over her face. Somebody should paint that shit, he often mused. Now that was high art!

They put the joint in the ashtray and got to work.

For That Quiet Time of the Day by Eric James Fullilove

I'm sitting in a creative meeting going over some lame-assed concepts for one of my clients and I'm not feeling it at all. My client is Lingerie Cigarettes, cancer sticks with style, and I'm trying to milk them for every penny this year so that I make my numbers and have all those zeros get busy on my bonus check next March.

Yeah, so I'm a dog, woof, woof. But I'm a 300 thou a year Account Executive for a major advertising agency, AND an ex-pro football player who still has "it." James Peterman at your service.

Excuse me," I say, and everyone falls silent, "If this is supposed to be Victoria's Secret meets the Marlboro Babe, then maybe the woman should be a little less…butch?"

Felicity Romeo, the creative director hates my guts, but I think it's because the skinny white bitch wants some chocolate thunder, and it ain't going to happen in her lifetime. Blonde, tall, thin, with glasses and clothes that are desperately trying to make up for the fact that she's not particularly pretty, she looks down the bridge of her nose over the black Calvin Klein designer frames that are too clunky for my taste, but what do I know?

Postcards From Hell by Edwardo Jackson

Saul was nothing if not talented.

So he must be nothing. That's what the soulless, LA art scene had screamed in its silence. When I'd met him two years ago, Saul was at the top of his game, having just sold out his first gallery exhibit at twenty-five. Every last painting. I, of course, had met him in a bar right after the show. He was so flush with confidence. Held charm and charisma on a leash in both hands. Shined like a new penny in a 7-11 cash register. Our first kiss had been four hours later when we broke into the gallery to kill a bottle of Moet in the dark. I could feel the bubbles of champagne creep up my nose. We'd lain on the cold hardwood floors, bodies going in opposite directions but heads facing each other. In a room full of all his art, the only light available belonged to the picture lights below each frame and his full moon smile. There was gravity in his moon. I blame that for drawing me into kissing him. And the champagne. And a real full moon in the sky. Yet I still take full responsibility for what happened after.

Object of His Obsession by Jonathan Luckett

It is the sight of her that triggers his fixation and obsession. So he sighs.

He has been waiting impatiently, like a child for this moment, when she will emerge from her office and take to the stairs.

She is descending the metal steps slowly now; hand on the railing, taking her time as she observes the scene before her. It is her legs that he focuses on first; placing his steaming mug carefully on his desk, as if giving her his full attention is his top priority. His eyes zoom in on the russet-colored skin and toned calf muscles, sculpted flesh that curves upward to the hemline of her short yet fashionable skirt. A tight mid-section he can see even from across the deep expanse of office space. The crisp white button-down top is fitting, following her curves the way a sports car does a winding road, eyes drifting upward to her full breasts that press against cotton-no, that is not right, they are straining against the fabric-yes, straining.

Waiting, he thinks, to be set free.

So he sighs.

He shifts uneasily in his chair. Swallows hard. Views her crossing the huge, warehouse-like space, littered with cubicles and conference tables made of steel, mesh, and chrome; some already occupied with staff hunkered down, staring into computer screens with headsets already donned. Four elevated offices located in the four corners of the building, the domain of management-her's-Nola's diagonally across from his.

ISBN: 0-9768589-1-6
Truth Be Told: Tales of Life, Love, and Drama
Edited By: Michael T. Owens. Foreword By: Travis Hunter
$14.99 U.S; 212 pages; Paperback
February 2006
Montage Publishing International